Would he still want to touch me? Slowly and properly this time in the daylight instead of the late night, unplanned, inexperienced lovemaking which was all we had managed before? Would his broad hands cup my buttocks again, drawing my body into his? Would his fingers squeeze my tiny boobs again; roughly, the way I loved so much? I looked again at the clock. To my horror a full ten minutes had passed in this reverie. Pulling myself together I skipped across the landing to the bathroom and turned on the taps. * Half an hour later I was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in my school uniform, pretending to eat breakfast, the plague of butterflies in my tummy replacing my normally healthy appetite. Fortunately Mum was so excited at the prospect of her son’s return that she didn’t notice any difference in me. As I sipped my orange juice I tried half heartedly to listen to her excited babble. “...So I’ll leave work on the dot of five to be here when he walks through the door… We’ve. That day I actually hid from him. That night I messaged him nonchalantly. We agreed to meet up. I could hardly contain myself. I could not stop myself from thinking about him, about his hands on my hips, on my back. Caressing my breasts, kissing me exactly where I needed to be kissed, that spot on my neck. Needless to say I masturbated thinking about him that night and the next one. When we met the next day I could hardly keep myself from touching him, alas I could not. It was a lovely afternoon where we did everything that does not involve touching. And I was well ready to give up all hope until that moment when we were parting. When he bent down to hug me, wrapping his long arms around my waist I knew there was something there. There had always been something there. I did not want to let go and neither did he, so we held on for another moment. All I had to do was turn my head and I would kiss him.. But that did not happen. What happened was back home, I was going crazy, desperate.
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